‘The Security Police are always prone to grand conspiracy theories,’ the Prime Minister says, looking down at his phone again.
‘The killer used a semiautomatic pistol with a silencer that cools the percussive gas,’ she says. ‘He killed the Foreign Minister with one shot through his right eye. Then he picked up the empty shell, leaned over the dead body, put the pistol to the left eye, fired again, picked up the shell, then turned—’
‘What the hell?’ the Prime Minister says, looking up at her.
‘The killer didn’t trigger any of the alarms himself,’ Saga goes on. ‘But even though the alarms were blaring loudly enough to wake the entire neighbourhood, and even though the police were on their way, he stayed to dig the bullets out of the wall and wooden floor before leaving the villa. He knew where all the security cameras were, so there’s no footage of him anywhere … And I can tell you now that forensics aren’t going to find anything that could lead us any closer to him.’
She stops speaking and looks at the Prime Minister, who takes a swig of water, puts the heavy glass back down and wipes his mouth.
The car glides towards north Djurg?rden. To their left is the great grass expanse of G?rdet. In the seventeenth century the area was used for military exercises, but today the only people around are a few joggers and dog-walkers.
‘So it was an execution?’ he asks in a hoarse voice.
‘Yes. We don’t know why yet, but it could be blackmail. The killer could have been trying to get classified information,’ Verner explains. ‘The Foreign Minister could have been forced to make some sort of statement on film.’
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ the Prime Minister whispers.
‘No. We’re convinced this is an act of political terrorism, even though no one has claimed responsibility overnight,’ Verner replies.
‘Terrorism?’
‘There was a prostitute in the Foreign Minister’s home,’ Saga says.
‘He has his problems,’ the Prime Minister says, wrinkling his long nose slightly.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Drop it,’ he interrupts.
Saga glances at the Prime Minister. There’s a distant look in his eyes, and he’s clenching his jaw. She wonders if he’s trying to come to terms with what’s happened. His government’s Foreign Minister has been murdered. Maybe he’s thinking back to the last time that happened.
On a grey autumn day in 2003, then Foreign Minister Anna Lindh was out shopping with a friend when she was attacked by a man who stabbed her in the arms and chest.
The Foreign Minister had no bodyguard with her, no personal protection. She was badly wounded and died in the operating room.
Sweden was different back then. It was a country where politicians still believed they had the right to proclaim socialist ideals of international decency.
‘The woman who was being used by the Foreign Minister,’ Saga goes on, looking the Prime Minister in the eye. ‘She heard a fragment of conversation which leads us to believe that this is the first in a number of planned murders.’
‘Murders? What sort of damn murders?’ the Prime Minister asks, raising his voice.
13
The Prime Minister’s Volvo rolls across Djurg?rdsbrunn’s narrow stone bridge, then turns left alongside the canal. The grit on the road crunches beneath the tyres. Two ducks wade into the water and swim away from the shore.
‘The killer mentioned Ratjen as some sort of key figure,’ Verner says.
‘Ratjen?’ the Prime Minister repeats questioningly.
‘We believe we might have identified him. His name is Salim Ratjen, and he’s serving a long prison sentence for narcotics offences,’ Saga explains, leaning forward to free her damp back from her leather bodysuit.
‘We see strong links between last night’s events and a Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz, who leads a terrorist group in Syria,’ Verner adds.
‘These are the only images we have of Ayad al-Jahiz,’ Saga says, holding up her phone.
A short film clip shows a man with a pleasant, mature face. He has a grey-flecked beard and glasses. He is looking into the camera as he speaks. It sounds like he’s addressing a group of attentive schoolchildren.
‘He has drops of blood on his glasses,’ the Prime Minister whispers.
Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz concludes his short speech and throws his arms out in a benevolent gesture.
‘What was he saying?’
‘He said … “We have dragged unbelievers behind trucks and troop carriers until the ropes came loose … Our task now is to find the leaders who support the bombing and shoot them until their faces are gone”,’ Saga replies.
The Prime Minister’s hand is shaking as he wipes his mouth.
They drive across another bridge and up towards the marina.
‘The security service at Hall Prison recorded a call that Salim Ratjen made to an unregistered mobile phone,’ Verner says. ‘They discuss three big celebrations in Arabic. The first party coincides with the date the Foreign Minister was killed … the second is supposed to take place on Wednesday, and the third on October seventh.’
‘Dear God,’ the Prime Minister mutters.
‘We have four days,’ Verner says.
Branches brush the roof of the car as they turn abruptly and start to head back towards the Kakn?s Tower.
‘Why the hell weren’t you keeping this Ratjen under closer surveillance?’ the Prime Minister asks, pulling a paper napkin from the box in the car door.
‘He has no previous connections to any terrorist networks,’ Verner replies.
‘So he was radicalised in prison,’ the Prime Minister says, wiping his neck.
‘That’s what we believe.’
The rain is getting heavier and the driver turns on the windshield-wipers. The blades sweep the tiny droplets from the glass.
‘And you think that I might be … one of these celebrations?’
‘We have to consider that possibility,’ Saga replies.
‘So you’re sitting here telling me that someone might murder me on Wednesday,’ the Prime Minister says, unable to conceal his agitation.
‘We need to get Ratjen to talk … we need to know what his plans are before it’s too late,’ Verner replies.
‘So what the hell are you waiting for?’
‘We don’t believe Salim Ratjen can be questioned in a conventional way,’ Saga tries to explain. ‘He didn’t respond when he was questioned five years ago, and didn’t say a single word during his trial.’
‘You have ways and means – don’t you?’
‘Breaking someone down can take many months,’ she replies.
‘I have a fairly important job,’ the Prime Minister says as he scrunches up the napkin. ‘I’m married, I have two children, and …’
‘We’re very sorry about this,’ Verner says.
‘This is the first time you’ve really been needed – so don’t tell me there’s nothing you can do.’
‘Ask me what we should do,’ Saga says.
The Prime Minister looks at her in surprise, then loosens his tie slightly.
‘What should we do?’ he repeats.
‘Tell the driver to stop the car and get out.’
They’ve reached Loudden, and the gloomy oil depot. The long spine of the pier is almost invisible in the grey rain.
Although the Prime Minister still looks uncertain, he leans forward and talks to the driver.
It’s raining harder, a chill rain that splashes the puddles. The Security Police driver stops right in front of one of the oil tanks.
The driver gets out and stands a couple of metres from the car. The rain darkens his pale beige uniform jacket in a matter of seconds.
‘So what should we do?’ the Prime Minister asks once more, looking at Saga.
14
Work is over for the day in Unit T of the high-security prison at Kumla, and fifteen inmates are jostling for space in the cramped gym.
No kettlebells, dumbbells, bars or any other equipment that could be used as a weapon is permitted.
The inmates move aside when Reiner Kronlid and his bodyguards from the Brotherhood come in. Reiner’s power is based on the fact that he controls the flow of all narcotics in the unit, and he guards his position like a jealous god.